


lies, damn lies, and statistics

by agivise



Series: terra firma [5]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Post-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, and only a teensy bit of incredibly unhealthy coping mechanisms, by ignoring them, feat. sodium lamps and sea glass, lovelace dealing with things in her own special way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agivise/pseuds/agivise
Summary: She would sit on the ocean floor for hours on end if it wouldn’t hurt her lungs so damn bad. She’s tempted, every once in a while, if she’s being completely honest. It’s a good method of running away from her problems. It’s not like it’d kill her or anything. Or — not permanently, at least. It’d definitely kill her several times over, it just wouldn’t stick.(Andtechnically,it’s not “running” away from your problems if you’re swimming.)





	lies, damn lies, and statistics

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh sorry for taking so long to post this, i kept deleting and rewriting bits over and over because god knows why but here it is, the penultimate piece of the series. one more to go folks! twentygayteen goin strong babeyyy!!!
> 
> warnings for poor mental health, drowning, and self destructive (technically mildly suicidal i guess??) behavior because apparently that's my brand now tbh. even the drowning. why am i like this
> 
> today's song recs: alone by sayk and how to be eaten by a woman by the glitch mob (or honestly any song off the album drink the sea by the glitch mob because fuuuuuck. fuck. love that album. good album.)

The air is soft and beautiful as she drags her knuckles through the scalding sand.

Some days fill it with smoke and chill and salt, but she doesn’t mind those either, in moderation. Most days, it’s just heat, a glaring sort of heat, the kind that radiates into her muscles until she sinks into its pull like a very welcome coma. 

Today, though, the sky is perfectly clear, a slick, deep blue, green tendrils of foliage streaking upwards like gentle claws. In regions inland — deserts especially, those awful places, New Mexico and Arizona and the sort — the blue is unflinchingly pure: un-tinted, untainted, and migraine-inducingly light. Everything looks like it’s been bleached to hell and back. Farther north, the skies are blanketed almost year-round by a grey slate of clouds that makes the woods look much more profoundly dark and secretive in comparison. It’s a good look for about two weeks, until the charm wears off and the forests are just forests again. Clouds up north are nature’s way of slapping an instagram filter over shitty scenery.

Cities are a different story, though. Lovelace still isn’t entirely sure how she feels about cities. She knows that Jacobi appreciates their variability, their grittier sides, no matter how frustrated he is by the people; that Minkowski considers them to be convenient, necessary evils, better supportive of the life she chooses to live; that this Eiffel’s never even been out of the city except in passing, and would probably find places like countrysides to be oppressively, sickeningly calm. In cities, after the suns sets, everything is sodium-yellow, bathed in streetlamp light, peppered with the red and green glow of traffic. She wants to hate cities. She really does. But the streetlamp-yellow is too familiar to let go of, and too difficult to replicate. (She wonders how expensive it would be to light her house with sodium lights, to capture that feeling in a nice little bulb, turning nostalgia on and off again at the flick of a switch.)

She lives in a smaller town now — smaller than a true city, at least — though it still retains a certain busyness which she can’t ever foresee herself wanting to escape. Most cities carry the pale grey tinge of light pollution, which she’s never been wholly fond of. Here, though, near the sea, the horizon has an almost teal sort of tone to it. It reminds her a little of the algae that used to grow in the birdbath beside her childhood home. It feels lively. Syrupy, even, on darker days. Always soothing, even in the storms. And the dividing line between the seaside and the city is one hell of a lot of fun to stare at. The orange-blue gradient is mesmerizing. It’s enough to keep her here, for now. 

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t missed her friends. 

The first month or two without them was an overwhelming relief. They were her friends, sure, her  _ only  _ friends — and Minkowski maybe even more than that — but years trapped beside other people in the hellscape better known as space will make anybody sick to  _ death _ of literally anybody else. She needed to take a breather, away from everything familiar, away from her friends and the city they chose to live in.

She needed isolation.

Pseudo-isolation, at least. All alone, except for Pryce. Pseudo-isolation is the perfect solution for the two pseudo-humans. They’re both monsters wearing pretty little people-suits. At least Hera, who’s finally paid her a visit, has the dignity to accept her own inhumanity, prancing so confidently through the world in her shiny new robot body. Pryce and Lovelace aren’t nearly so… daring in that regard. Pryce, at the very least, has her bleach-yellow devil eyes and striking white hair to distinguish herself from the general public. She’s not living a complete lie. People still get that nasty little tinge of distrust the second Pryce walks in the room, the same sort of distrust they feel when they see a coyote in the daytime. Pyrce, naturally, doesn’t give a shit. Lovelace is yet to decipher if this is because of a lack of social understanding or just because of pure, unadulterated apathy to what others think. 

(If it’s the former, Lovelace can sympathize. The latter? She  _ wishes _ she was at that level of not giving a shit.)

Lovelace, though, is a very different story. She doesn’t like going in public. She feels like every goddamn eye in the room is pointed right at her, picking her apart, ripping her to shreds bit by bit to reveal the skinwalking alien bastard hiding inside. And then they say  _ nothing. _ She’s a motherfucking alien clone with a stolen life and name and face, and she’s accepted into society just as immediately as any real human would be, because, for all intents and purposes, she is one. She’s as human as they come, as far as appearances go. 

But she still feels…

Is _ guilty _ the right word?

Certainly not. She has nothing to be guilty about. She’s not tricking anyone. Not intentionally, at least. She didn’t choose be like this. She didn’t choose to walk around in Isabel Lovelace’s reconstructed corpse with Isabel Lovelace’s name and memories and personality. But she still does. She  _ does. _ She benefits, every day, from a life that she stole from a dead woman. And somehow, that makes her feel — no, not guilty. Guilt is for people who have done something wrong. She’s done nothing of the sort.

No, no, she feels —  _ helpless. _ She feels helpless. And she hates feeling helpless. 

Maybe that’s how Jacobi felt when — well.  _ When.  _ When  _ it  _ happened. Did he feel guilt when his double died? Or just helplessness? Maybe one day she’ll hate him enough to make him suffer through those memories once again. Maybe one day she’ll like him enough to let him confide those memories in her. That day is yet to come.

But it’s rough, going through it alone, is all.

On her bad days, she stays out of the public eye entirely. Finds a secluded stretch of beach, swims laps from shoreline to abyss and back again, diving as deep as she can manage on a single breath before dragging herself back to the grating, hot sand and collapsing into it. Letting the earth burn her with its apathetic heat, freeze her with its airless cold, suspend her weightlessly among the hordes of silvery fish which seem to watch her every move. Rinse, repeat. Shore, sea, surface, shore. It’s a comforting pattern.

She likes these days. They keep her occupied. And Pryce, who is yet to discover whether or not she remembers how to swim — and often manages to use pridefulness to pretty elegantly hide her own insecurities — stays out of her way. Utmost isolation. A quiet, welcoming place, all to herself.

This day is different, though. Because Minkowski is here, staying with her, staying here, and she can’t think up any good excuses to ditch her on her trip to the beach. Or, at least, she thinks up plenty of perfect excuses when she brings it up, but in the panic of the moment, she just gets flustered and distracted and accidentally invites Minkowski along.  _ God,  _ she’s a mess around Minkowski now. Well, she’s  _ always  _ been a mess around her but — that — that’s not the point. The point is that she fucked up. 

But now, as she kneels in the sand, drenched in the warmth of the sea and the setting sun, she regrets absolutely nothing. Having Minkowski along is… good. Not her usual routine, but still nice. She just likes being near her. Likes her pretty face and stupid laugh and cute smile or  _ whatever. _

Lovelace is still too much of a fucking sissy to just suck it up and admit that to her face, though. Minkowski can’t know that Lovelace is so… gushy. It’d ruin her otherwise  _ completely _ unflawed reputation. Hooking herself up to a dead man switch and almost accidentally murdering Doug Eiffel with a massive explosion? Getting shot in the head and waking up hours later, unscathed and fully alive? Turning out to be an alien skinwalker with stolen memories and a false identity? Old news. But getting caught having…  _ emotions?  _ Her cool-guy cred would never recover. Fucking disgraceful.

“Are you much of a swimmer?” she asks Minkowski, who doesn’t seem to hear her. She might be dissociating a bit. She’s more stable than Lovelace is, sure, but she might not fully grasp that yet. “Hey. Hon. Renée. Do you swim?”

Minkowski glances over, finally tearing her eyes away from the stretch of dark sea before her. “I’m not sure.”

Lovelace stands and steps closer to the waves, feet sinking into the wet sand as it laps at her ankles. “I had a panic attack the first time I tried to swim after — you know.” She reaches down and dips her fingertips into the murky water, catching a piece of seaglass between them, which she tosses over in Minkowski’s direction. Minkowski catches it with ease. “With the weightlessness and the speckled darkness and all. I guess my brain thought that I was — back. Back there. Scared the hell out of me. Almost drowned in three feet of water — which, ironically, just added to the panic. Drowning meant no air, no air meant the icy blackness of space, icy blackness of space meant more drowning. Vicious cycle, shit like that.” 

Not like it’d matter, anyway. She’d just heal again. Still works out of the orbit of Wolf 359, apparently. Sliced up her hand something fierce cutting into a peach with a paring knife, and it just sealed itself right back up like it wasn’t even there. If it wasn’t for the blood and the slight sting and the itch of tissue knitting itself back together, she wouldn’t have even noticed it’d happened.

(She’ll never drown. She’ll outlive them all. She’ll outlive everything. It’s a horrifying thought.)

“I get that. Felt that,” Minkowski offers, twisting the silky glass between her hands. She’s quiet today. She’s  _ rarely  _ this quiet. Maybe she should stop worrying her so bad. She says some concerning shit out loud sometimes.

“I was thinking about moving nearer to you guys,” she suggests, before diving under the waves so she doesn’t have to worry herself over Minkowski’s response. 

The water is bracingly chilly and terrifyingly alluring. She would sit on the ocean floor for hours on end if it wouldn’t hurt her lungs so damn bad. She’s tempted, every once in a while, if she’s being completely honest. It’s a good method of running away from her problems. It’s not like it’d kill her or anything. Or — not permanently, at least. It’d definitely kill her several times over, it just wouldn’t stick.

(And  _ technically, _ it’s not “running” away from your problems if you’re swimming.)

When she surfaces, Minkowski is glaring daggers at her as nervously as ever. It’s just dark enough out that Lovelace can pretend she doesn’t see it.

“Hey, maybe  _ don’t  _ scare the shit out of me every time you want to avoid a conversation?” she suggests, as Lovelace drags herself out of the water and offers an outstretched hand.

“Healthy coping mechanisms are for quitters.” She smiles as Minkowski takes her hand, guiding her just a bit closer to the water’s edge. They sit together, the waves lapping gently over their ankles. “Cool people dissociate and repress.”

“Pretty sure my therapist would politely disagree with that sentiment.”

“My therapist could kick your therapist’s ass.”

Minkowski clearly does her damndest to try and not laugh at this, but it’s a remarkable failure. “Your hand is all cold. Gross.”

“And yet, you’re still holding it,” Lovelace says with a wink.

And look, it may be a bit to dark to know for  _ certain,  _ but it sure as hell looks like Minkowski is blushing, and nothing will convince Lovelace otherwise. Her eyes glitter slightly as they reflect the light of the moon. It’s fucking  _ adorable.  _ The  _ worst.  _ Lovelace could combust right here and now, and then be resurrected by her bullshit magical alien flesh, and then immediately die again because Minkowski’s expression is so sweet and blushy and she’s so beautiful and wonderful and perfect and how the  _ fuck  _ could Lovelace be expected to survive someone so goddamn _ good? _

“You have a piece of seaweed on your cheek,” Minkowski says, wrinkling her nose as her voice breaks slightly. She swipes a strand of green off Lovelace’s face with the tips of her fingers and just — just leaves them there. Her hands are so warm and soft and Lovelace honestly might be a little bit in love. “There. I think I got it.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Lovelace replies, and her heart drops to her stomach, her skin prickling with dread. “And, _wow,_ apparently I have no fucking impulse control, because I absolutely did not mean to say that out loud. Shit. I’m. I — err. Sorry.”

“Why —”

“I don’t know. I  _ genuinely _ don’t know why I said that out loud, I just, I —”

She shakes her head, and if her blush was questionable before, it’s pretty damn clear now. The grin, though, that’s the interesting bit. “No, no, I mean why are you apologising?”

Lovelace sinks her face into her hands for a long moment, breathing in the salty air as slowly as she can manage. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Pretty sure you were just confessing your undying and eternal love for me, if I remember correctly,” Minkowski jokes.

“I did  _ not  _ say — I wouldn’t have phrased it like —”

“Hmm, mysterious, I  _ do  _ seem to remember the words ‘in love with’ and ‘you’ being placed next to each other in that sentence, and I do definitely recall you being at least  _ somewhat _ undying and eternal.” 

Lovelace opens her mouth to respond, but the words catch on her tongue. There’s nothing to protest. She leans slightly forward, feeling the warmth radiating off of Minkowski’s skin.

“I do hope —” Her hand shifts slightly on Lovelace’s cheek, palm brushing across her jaw. “— that I’m not mistaken. Because then  _ this _ would be a lot less cool of me.”

A single beat passes, and she kisses her, replacing the burn of saltwater on Lovelace’s lips with the taste of burnt coffee and sugar and acetone, so bittersweet and warm and gentle. The cool breeze prickles across her wet skin, and she leans into Minkowski’s grip, against the strength of her shoulders, into her warmth.

“Hey, Isabel?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you too.”

She smiles, pressing their foreheads together. “That was really lame.”

_ “You’re _ really lame,” Minkowski says with a faux pout, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Alright, fine, we’re  _ both _ cliché losers. But mostly just you.”

“Bite me.”

“Maybe later,” she says, giving another wink and grinning at the flustered look it earns her. “It’s nice. Having you here, I mean.”

“It’s nice  _ being _ here. I — I should’ve visited sooner.” And then, like an afterthought, “I missed you.”

Minkowski nods, staring quietly out to the rapidly darkening horizon. Her arm latches tighter around Lovelace’s waist as they sit in pleasant silence.

“Race you to that big rock and back?” she finally says, gesturing her head over to a boulder a few dozen yards away from shore.

Lovelace laughs, sea water dripping into the corners of her mouth as they stand together. “You’re on, fucker.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for your constant love and support and kind words -- you guys genuinely made me love writing again. your comments mean so much to me!!! <3


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